


At the end of the day

by siliquastrum (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other, Pining, its literally all just crowley pining as they watch les mis thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/siliquastrum
Summary: It was the year 1985, and an angel and a demon found themselves going to the theatre.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	At the end of the day

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this months ago for my friend Sage, who loves les mis and good omens. Its partially inspired by that one tumblr post of A/C going to west end musicals.

Crowley had never been particularly keen on musicals. They were a fan favourite in Heaven, instantly giving him an excuse for his adversity. However, angels (or in this case a particular angel), seemed to enjoy the things, and Crowley enjoyed being around this one particular angel. Over the past decade or so the two had attended many a musical production in the West End. So far, Crowley’s favourite had been Jesus Christ Superstar, which sent him into such a fit of laughter he had to leave the theatre for a minute or two.

It was the year 1985, and an angel and a demon found themselves walking through the busy streets of Soho in the crisp September afternoon. Wardour street was crowded with theatre goers, hungry tourists, and later would be filled with those who know the nightlife of the city. It was days like these that Crowley could remember why he chose London all those years ago: the clear sky with picture perfect fluffy clouds dressed the old buildings in a gentle light as music from the surrounding bars mixed together into an indistinguishable beautiful mess, akin to the people.

“So, what are we watching today, angel?” He asked as the pair rounded off to Shaftesbury Avenue.

“Les Miserables,” Aziraphale replies, “old Victor Hugo’s work finally made it across the channel.”

“Yes, I bet he’s rolling in his grave right now. Isn’t this the one about the revolution?”

“About redemption and love, my dear boy. The revolution is just a part of it.”

_Love_. Right, yes.

“Hell sent me a commendation for that,” Crowley commented as the two made their way to their seats inside the Queen’s theatre.

The first act of the play was immersive, with no spoken lines. Crowley found himself drawn to the leader of the young revolutionaries, all fire and brimstone and cold anger, his halo-like golden hair reminding Crowley of another like him who shone like the star of the morning: A bright young man, capable of being terrible.

Aziraphale offered ice cream for the interval and Crowley wasn’t one to protest. And so he found himself leaning on one of those silly stand up tables, watching Aziraphale as he wandered off towards the bar. _In my life, there is no one like him…_ his memory for music for once decided to mock him, quoting Eponine’s lament of Marius.

A minute later, the angel had returned with two cups of ice-cream and Crowley felt very self aware as he carefully took his serving (strawberry) trying to avoid contact with Aziraphale’s hands, as if that would burn him. As Aziraphale gushed over the music, and Jean Valjean’s actor, Crowley found himself leaning closer on instinct, attention entirely dedicated to the celestial being next to him, all golden-white curls and soft cheeks. He paused for a brief second, catching Aziraphale looking back at him in a manner he couldn’t explain. _He was never mine to lose_ , the radio in his head teased, _‘You go too fast for me Crowley’_ it echoed, and the spell broke.

“So, back to our seats?” He asked, almost awkward.

“Yes, indeed.” Aziraphale replied.

Oh, Act two. Act two was torturous. Crowley would rather return to the fourteenth century than sit through it again. As the young actress on stage sweetly hit the notes of ‘On my own’, Crowley could feel his heart slowly being stabbed with a blunt knife. He didn’t dare look at Aziraphale, when the music rose under _I love him, but every day I’m learning all my life I’ve only been pretending_. What’s worse, Aziraphale kept wondering out loud how Marius could miss this. It was all Crowley could do to not set himself on fire right then and there.

He shed a few tears at ‘A little fall of rain’, and he could tell from the sniffles to his right that Aziraphale was crying too. (To this day, Crowley won’t admit he bawled like a baby at Gavroche’s death, or the bitter feeling Enjolras’ broken form left in his mouth.)

“To love another person is to see the face of God? What nonesense,” Crowley grumbled as he huddled under the umbrella he and Aziraphale were sharing. The sky had decided to tip it down as they left the theatre.

“You know, love is not a particularly demonic thing,” Aziraphale’s offhand comment drove another nail in Crowley’s coffin for that evening.

“For a being of divine grace, you can have some serious prejudices, angel.”

The pair stopped, two steps away from the bookshop, and Crowley could swear the radio in his head was humming _A breath away from where you are, I’ve come home from so far_.

“I haven’t seen proof of the opposite,” Aziraphale said, uncharacteristically moody, inches away from the demon.

Crowley could prove him wrong right then and there. All he needed to do was close the space between them. It shouldn’t be difficult, should it?


End file.
